


Stockholm Syndrome

by Slasherholic



Category: Halloween (1978), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Kidnapping, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-02 15:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16789594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slasherholic/pseuds/Slasherholic
Summary: Michael stood in the hallway. Behind him, stifled whimpers erupted into heavy sobs, shattering the thick silence as if it were glass. His shoulders tensed. He stared down in stiff consideration at the old, splintering floorboards beneath his boots. With one matter solved, another had sprouted like a stubborn weed to take its place, and the question still stood:What, now, was he to do with this girl?In which you very nearly meet a grisly fate at the hands of Michael Myers, but a case of mistaken identity leaves you as his captive instead. Eventual fluff and smut.





	1. The Shape Stalks

**Author's Note:**

> In case the piss-poor formatting wasn't a dead giveaway, this is my first fic on this site, so I apologize for the sloppiness. It looked better in word, I swear, lol.
> 
> I'll try to update this at least every week!

You had never been a superstitious person.

Stories of ghosts and fiends and boogeymen, while enjoyable, left no lasting impact on you, and as the credits rolled and the theater crowds dispersed, any traces of your fleeting paranoia were discarded along with the remnants of soggy popcorn.

Thus, it was with great curiosity that you found yourself lingering in the comforting warmth and light of your front door, gazing out with apprehensive eyes into the wall of darkness before you, uneasiness welling all the while like stagnant ice water in the pit of your stomach. Of course, it wasn’t fear that kept you rooted like a statue in place, or made you hesitant to step beyond the soft flicker of melting porch candles. You scoffed at the notion; you weren’t some sniveling child, afraid of imagined monsters and the unknown. No, fear was not the culprit. 

Even so, in your struggle to make heads or tails of the shadowy figures which hid in the darkness like ghost ships against a black fog, just beyond the reach of dying street lamps, your mind ran amok with grim fantasies.

A cool autumnal gust hissed and whistled through the deadened leaves which lay strewn about the asphalt, sending them twisting and dancing through the blackness in a striking ballet of red and gold. The passing breeze pricked at your skin like a hundred icy needles and siezed your body in a tremble— you stepped back into the warmth of the doorway to dig with clammy fingers through your bag.

Your teeth found your bottom lip and you rolled the soft skin back and forth impatiently, squinting against the sudden harsh glow of your phone. What you saw made your expression sour, and pulled your mouth into a taut frown; you were already going to be late. With a defeated huff, you collapsed back against the cold metal of the doorframe, your heavy eyelids fluttering shut in resignation.

A symphony of night, of swaying leaves and busy crickets played in your ears and lulled you into relaxed complacency. Exhaustion had already found its hold over you, had wormed its way in with thick tendrils and now hugged your body in a stiff blanket; you knew there was no shaking it. You allowed your drifting mind to wander, became enamored with a fantasy of scrapping your plans and drifting off on your couch with a crackling fire and a fuzzy blanket and a stupid movie.

A fantasy that was, unfortunately, stamped promptly out by the harsh boot of reality; your friends were counting on you. If you flaked out now, you would be hassled about it for weeks. Stubbornly banishing to the back of your mind whatever childish fear that had kept you rooted in place, you set your jaw, gathered your thoughts, and stepped away from the gentle flicker of candle light.

Blackness surged like a cold wave around you. You squinted through the murky waters; your car, parked at the end of the street, was barely visible through the midnight haze that had settled over your neighborhood like dense fog, blotting out the twinkle of distant stars and muddying the sky with ashen grey. 

Your knuckles paled around your keys. Admittedly, it wasn’t often you bothered to lock your car; your rationale was that anyone attempting a break-in would be sorely disappointed in the plunder. It was a lazy habit, and irresponsible at best, but one that hadn’t proven to be an issue for you yet.

Impatience seized you in a clammy grasp and you covered the rest of the distance in brisk strides. 

Your reddened fingers found the door handle and you tossed your bag haughtily in the passenger seat before reaching to flip down the overhead mirror. Tardiness aside, if you were committing to this outing, you would do so looking your very best. You sat up to examine yourself— but, as you gazed at the mirrored image, your focus began to drift away from your pampered reflection, content to linger instead in the murky blackness of your back seat.

There, against the shadows, you saw something. some curious, unmoving shape. You squinted— the hairs of your neck stood straight as if charged with sudden electricity.

At first glance, the shape had appeared to be nothing more than a warped reflection of the sputtering, choking street lamp overhead; but, as you blinked hard, and your eyes became focused, the fuzzy details fell like a jigsaw puzzle into place. You were seeing no trick of the light. Your body ran cold.

In the back of your car sat a still, silent figure, as rigid as a statue, its empty visage as porcelain pale as any ghost.

You couldn’t move. Tension seized your frame like taut rope. The breath was sucked from your lungs, and for a suffocating moment, you could only stare with widening eyes at the surreal reflection in the mirror; it stared through you, past you, unseeing. Only when you recognized the sharp glint of steel— saw the curve of the carving knife clutched in the figure’s motionless hand— did you shake free the crippling bonds of your shock.

Your body moved on its own. You seized the door handle with trembling fingers, tried to throw yourself from the car; but, the figure struck like a snake. One thick arm found its way around your neck and a rough hand was suddenly at your mouth, and despite your violent thrashing you were dragged like a ragdoll back into the driver’s seat. 

You writhed and kicked and clawed, your eyes burning with sudden wetness, but the horrible pressure only snaked tighter until the edges of your vision had blurred into dizzying obscurity. Your pulse beat hot and angry in your ears, a dutiful drummer marching to the tune of strangled cries. You gasped for air, but it had been crushed from your lungs, and suddenly even your muffled screams were stolen from you. You cried silently into calloused fingers. Red-hot tears seared tauntingly down your flushed cheeks.

The pressure in your head swelled horribly, threatening to burst, and when it did, it would suck your awareness away with it.

Your struggles grew hopelessly lethargic. The world around you spun and tumbled, as if you had been caught in the wake of an icy black current. You sunk nearer to the abyss of unconsciousness and caught the sudden glint of sharp eyes from within a blurring ocean of blank white. They were dark, nearly black, the blackest you had ever seen, and their glare was one of ravenous, unfeeling hunger. You were staring into the eyes of a shark.

Then, the dark sea expanded, drowning your world, and your body fell limp.


	2. Chapter 2

The depth of your exhaustion was your first waking thought. 

Your eyelids, as they fluttered languidly open, were as stiff and heavy as lead, and a horrible ache hammered against your skull. You blinked hard— splotches popped in a kaleidoscope of color across your swimming vision. When you shifted on the unyielding mattress beneath your body, you did so with the ease of someone trudging through wet concrete. You heaved a groan and went still, waiting for the tumbling waves of dizziness to pass, and tried to hear beyond the shrill ringing in your ears. 

_Drip, drop, drip, drop,_ came the distant sound of water plinking against a sink. Your fingers flew to your temples and you screwed up your face. You must have never even made it home from the party last night— there was no faucet close to your bedroom.

Reluctantly you blinked, squinting as blurry shapes and colors became coherent. Your darting eyes came to rest on the grainy wooden panels of a closed door. The only source of light seeped like an obnoxious beacon from underneath it, and you looked on with eyes wide and a stare of blank confusion; this certainly wasn’t any room in your friend’s house.

The mystery only grew as you glanced about the room. The floor and walls were made of old, flaking planks, as if the place were long abandoned. A deep frown tugged at your lips and your eyebrows knit together. What the _hell_ had you been doing last night? What weren’t you remembering?

As your mind trudged through hazy, distant memories, your hand absently wandered to the flesh of your neck. A sharp gasp escaped your lips. You drew back your fingers instantly. Red-hot pain flared furiously under your gentle embrace, the skin tender and raw to the touch. You could not stifle the cough rising from your agitated throat, and when you buried your mouth and rasped into your sleeve, a muscle-deep ache spasmed throughout entire body; even breathing hurt.

_Breathing. You couldn’t breathe._

Your breath hitched in your chest like a punch to the gut; you fell back against the bed frame, your eyes growing wide in sudden panic. Hazy memories assaulted your mind in a ghastly slideshow. 

All at once, you remembered suffocating, felt the ghost of that horrible vice-like grip at your neck, crushing your muscles as if they were fragile eggshells and squeezing the last gasp of air from your lungs. You had drowned there, in the blackness, sunken into icy oblivion at the hands of a monster. You were never at the party; your keys had never even made it into the ignition. By all accounts, you should be dead.

Dread seeped like the coldest water into your bones. It swept in a rising symphony of shrieking and pounding until it was screaming in your ears, and you obeyed its shrill orders like a puppet on a string, turning to stare in dumb shock at the searing light clawing from underneath the door. The clashing swelled to a deafening crescendo of frantic hysteria and a sudden, horrible realization echoed through your body:

He was still here. He was _with_ you.

Your heart roared in thunderous applause as you scrambled to a dizzying stand. Old floorboards shrieked in shrill protest beneath your weight, betraying your shaky lunge for the far door, the exit. Your stomach churned and flipped and threatened to spill.

You seized the knob with clammy fingers and yanked like a cornered animal. There was a harsh grating, like nails on a chalkboard, and a muddy light flooded the room, coating your skin in a grimy fluorescent yellow. You watched in tunneled, dream-like awareness as the shape appeared in the corner of your reeling vision, a looming phantom with the ashen face of death itself, looking on in predacious hunger at your small, small form. 

The world fell away into blurry obscurity. You burst madly into the black hallway.

You ran for your life, from the thundering of heavy footsteps. The unlit house morphed before you into a narrow catacomb of twists and turns. You passed a blurred room, where a sudden gleam of light severed the darkness like a knife. You swerved sharply and doubled back on your path, stumbling through the open door like a moth drawn blindly to a flame. 

It was an open window. Filtered moonlight dowsed your skin in a silver glow. Logic and reason fled your mind like dying embers, extinguished under the waves of booming footsteps, which surged in ravenous approach. You threw yourself against the window screen; it caved. 

Your body became a feather, weightless. A cold chill stung your reddened cheeks. Below you, a dark mass surged, unyielding. Your head snapped violently at the impact and your world erupted into a furious white daze. You drew a sharp wheeze, gasping as the breath was ripped from your lungs.

Cymbals clashed wildly in your ears. You touched your throbbing temple; your fingers came away dark and wet. You pushed up on scuffed palms, reeling at the tumbling and churning of the world. You clutched your head and grit your teeth. 

Somewhere, beyond the spinning and ringing and deafening thump-thump-thump of your heart against your skull came the distant crunch of dry leaves, muffled as if refracted through water. You looked up with a wide-eyed stare of dazed bewilderment. What you saw drained the color from your face.

Like a predator from the black, whirling abyss, the shape approached.

You scrambled madly to your feet- made it half way to standing- then collapsed palms-first into the damp earth, your trembling fingers grasping wildly at dirt and soil, your mouth falling agape in a hoarse scream. Searing agony trickled like molten metal up your foot, scorching muscle and sinew and bone. Something in your ankle had torn.

A shadow blanketed your trembling body; then, the rasp of heavy, muffled breathing was upon you. An impossibly strong hand seized the back of your shirt like a striking python. You became a wounded animal, kicking and clawing at your attacker in unhinged hysteria, raking your dirty fingernails across his calloused skin. 

Primal, bloody cries left your throat and echoed unheard into the night, witnessed only by the gleaming moon above. It looked on in mocking silence as you were dragged screaming from the ground and hoisted effortlessly into strong arms, and suddenly, you were face to face with your relentless hunter. Your frantic heart beat madly at your chest and threatened to split your skull wide open.

You stared up through searing tears. The ghost-white mask loomed menacingly close, so much so that you could hear the stifled inhales drawn from the black abyss underneath. You traced with saucer-wide eyes the mask’s hollow, empty features, void of color and emotion. It was a shoddy immitation of humanity. The masked man stared ahead in blank detachment as your cries deteriorated into desperate, unintelligible pleas.

You were hauled back into the house like a flailing lamb to the slaughter.

He ascended a flight of stairs. You reached with trembling fingers to claw at the splintering railing, grasped the grainy wood so hard that your knuckles shone white; but, he wrenched you away with rough hands and seized your wrists so tightly together that you feared he would shatter your bones like glass.

All you could do as he dropped you down again on worn bedcovers was heave wet, sputtering sobs.

“Please-“ You croaked, “Please, just let me go, I- I won’t tell anyone, I- I just…”

Your words trailed off into choked whimpers and you cried hard into your sleeve. The silent apparition looming over you stood almost perfectly still. If not for the steady rise and fall of his broad chest, or the subtle observant tilt of his head, he could have very well passed for a grisly, ghostly statue. A dark shadow blanketed his eyes, but you could practically feel their predatory glare scanning your bruised and battered form, piercing where they fell like hot daggers. The figure studied you in silent curiosity. He observed the frantic rise and fall of your chest, the quiver on your lips, the tears which streaked red and raw and angry down your flushed cheeks. Never had you felt so small. 

At last his roving gaze came to rest on your injured foot.

Before you could make any effort to fight him, his large hand had shot out. He seized your leg just above your ankle. You cried out in surprise, tried frantically to pull away, but he dug his fingers into your skin with force enough to bruise and pulled right back. Resisting him, you realized, was like resisting death itself; hopelessly futile.

You mustered one final, stubborn kick, and then, the defiance ebbed like a retreating tide from your broken body. Your exhausted muscles fell limp in his grasp. He seemed to respond in kind, his rough fingers loosening their iron hold on your limb, but still he held you, and the presence of his very touch pricked clammy goosebumps down your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut and stared in defeat at the muddled, swimming abyss that washed over your eyelids in dark waves.

You felt his fingers wander to the swelling on your ankle. He touched the angry red bruising gingerly with his thumb, and you jerked, choking down a whimper. He rotated the joint down, watching for your reaction, then up- and you gave a hoarse cry. Darkness pricked the edges of your vision in hot, searing needles.

“No, please- “You sputtered, “Please, don’t- I can’t move it like that!”

From the angry swelling alone, you knew that something important had torn. The figure seemed to realize this too, as he released your leg, and let it fall limply to the mattress. His arms went stiff at his sides. Once again, he loomed over you, still as any corpse, the harsh flicker of sputtering bathroom lights dowsing his mask in an grimy yellow.

Deep in your gut, you knew who this was. Truthfully, you had suspected all along, and been reluctant to believe it, but now, it could not be denied. After all, everybody in your town knew of the little Myers boy who, one sleepy Halloween, had taken a carving knife to his older sister like a butcher to a pig. You had been only three, too young to remember any detail from that night save for the pale, disillusioned look of shock on your mother’s face as the story flashed in bold lettering across your television screen.

For years, the story of Michael Myers had rippled through your neighborhood in the form of exaggerated campfire stories, until the six-year-old boy had been immortalized as a monster, a boogeyman, a child-shaped front of humanity, behind which hid the embodiment of remorseless, unfeeling evil. You had always scoffed at such stories— they had seemed neither fair nor logical. Maybe the boy had suffered from delusions, schizophrenia or the like. Perhaps he was a psychopath; but, to imply that Michael Myers wasn’t human? That he was hollow? Nothing but a shape?

The longer he stood there, motionless, staring down at you with those empty black eyes, the more you believed it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, so this chapter is from Michael's perspective, because I needed to explain the reason that he didn't, y'know, _murder_ the reader. Also, it was fun to take a dip into Michael's mind :^) He came off a little bit more emotional than I had originally intended, so there may be some editing of this chapter. I'm far from satisfied with this, but I really wanna keep the story rolling, so here we go!

In the thick, swirling blackness, Michael sat motionless, waiting.

He waited for the urge; the insatiable, unwavering presence that had rooted like a weed in his brain and taken up permanent residence in his body, nearly sixteen years now to the date.

The urge would whisper softly at first- a lenient suggestion, perhaps, or a playful nudge at his shoulder- but inevitably, its whispering would grow louder, and become more demanding, until its facade had fallen away and it was screeching like a banshee in his ears and pulling viciously at his mind, and it could no longer be ignored. It refused to be ignored. Always, _always_ , the urge won out.

Loomis, Michael’s psychiatrist since his admittance at Smith’s Grove, was not fond of sugar-coating, and thus, had never beat around the bush when describing the boy’s condition.

“You know what you are, don’t you, Michael?” The doctor had said to the rigid youth who sat opposite him. “Surely by now, you must recognize what lives inside of you?”

Michael offered no response. Loomis knew better than to expect one. 

“Seven years it’s been now, Michael, and we have made no progress. At what point does it become acceptable to admit that what plagues you cannot be cured? That your ailment is irreversible?”

The boy looked beyond Loomis, at the grey hospital wall, where the wallpaper had begun to flake away.

“I treat mental illness, Michael. What lives inside of you is evil.”

The boy just stared, deathly silent. There was no glimmer of awareness in his dark eyes. Loomis shook his head decidedly. He stood from his chair, adjusted his coat, and turned to leave.

“I cannot treat evil.” 

Despite his indifference towards the past, curiously, Michael’s mind strayed to that conversation often. 

Where he regarded most people with the same blank detachment, the name “Samuel Loomis” lit a match under his skin and sent the urge barking madly like a rabid dog in his ears. It was something about the man’s voice, Michael thought- something about that stern, dour tone, that had droned away like a broken record and threatened to keep him from his urges indefinitely. 

Samuel Loomis, however, was not the subject of his consideration in the present moment; that dangerous burden was shouldered by another.

Michael stared absently down through the darkness at his scuffed, muddy boots. He scoured his mind for an answer, an explanation, something that might warrant this sudden and utterly foreign hesitation of his.

He had gone through the familiar motions like clockwork, felt the urge gain momentum within him like a runaway train as he stalked the girl, had heard the restless blaring of its horn in his ears as she took her place beneath the murky black backdrop of night, and the stage was set.

Then, the time had come, and his fingers had been around her warm throat, and he had squeezed, waiting for the urge to swell to a crescendo- and she had struggled and thrashed, her frantic pulse quickening beneath his grasp, but not yet, he could not strike yet, still he had to wait- but then, the girl had quieted, her thrashing ceased, and she fell limp like a doll in his arms, and suddenly, the rush had passed him by without ever stopping, leaving Michael a dangerous, seething volcano, unable to erupt.

Michael didn’t understand. The rush, that sudden, swift second of burning bloodlust, it always came. It was his routine, his ritual, his _law_.

He had ghosted the edge of his knife over the girl’s warm throat. Tiny beads of red welled up on her skin, barely enough to form a trickle. Michael watched the red blossom with striking disinterest; still nothing. He felt nothing. 

Slowly, he released his grip on her throat, watched as her unconscious body drew deep and needy breaths. His jaw tensed.

Maybe he had been too hasty in his actions. Perhaps he had moved through the steps too quickly. A multitude of possible explanations sprung to mind, but none proved to be satisfying, and in the end, Michael's attempt to rationalize the matter had failed miserably.

The conclusion he was forced to arrive at was backwards in every sense of the word, but it could not be denied; the urge to take the life of this girl was uncomfortably absent from him in both mind and body.

So here he sat, in the dark, growing restless, his world upturned and his would-be victim still very much alive. He was patient, though- he could wait- the urge would return soon, and when it did, the task would be so satisfying, so easy.

The girl had crippled herself in a doomed escape attempt. She had nowhere to run, no way to resist him. He saw himself descending upon her, knife in hand, could almost feel the familiar sensation of his blade piercing flesh, spilling hot, sticky blood from gushing arteries and striking over and over until at last she lay still- and the voice, the evil within, would be satisfied- his fragmented routine at last complete. 

It would happen. He was sure of it. He just had to _wait_.

Morning came without incident. Michael’s patience was wearing thin. Light spilled through the windows, illuminating shadowy hallways and reflecting off the pristine, bloodless surface of his knife. He ran his finger absentmindedly down the dangerous edge of the blade- its cold steel was frustratingly absent of red.

Michael flexed and unflexed his fingers, his lidded agitation at last brewing and bubbling to the surface. He didn’t _understand_.

The urge had always been there, a constant guiding force, an invisible hand on his shoulder. It was just as Loomis had always insisted; His ailment could not be cured. Michael had never cared about the nature of his supposed ailment, or, at the very least, he could not recall a time when he did. When he swung his knife, he did so without remorse, without hesitation, without any emotion save for a momentary silent, seething rage, and then even the rage subsided, and once again, Michael was empty. 

He didn’t mind the emptiness. The evil had wormed its way in too early, too deep, and now he and it were one in the same. From the moment that he had plunged a knife into his older sister, the boy called Michael Myers had died, and now only an empty shell of a human being remained. He could never, and would never change. It had been a simple, comfortable fact of his existence; but now, the cycle was broken, and Michael didn’t feel empty- 

-he felt incomplete.

Michael’s fist clenched like a vice around the handle of his knife. He rose slowly from his chair, mechanical in his movements, and lifted his head to glare across the hall at the closed bedroom door.

The girl- she had upset the cycle. When he took her life, spilled her blood, the urge, his law, would return. It had to.

Michael approached the bedroom not as an unfeeling predator, but as a man about to murder in cold blood.

He wrenched the door open with force enough to tear it from its hinges.

The girl lay on the bed. She was sleeping, her knees tucked tightly into her chest, as if she had drifted off in anticipation of this very moment.

She remained blissfully unaware as Michael raised his arm above his head to strike.

Then, with his gleaming, eager knife hovering precariously over her throat, Michael hesitated.

His body stilled as if frozen in time.

It was something about her face.

Some taunting, unnamable thing, he realized, that had hovered like a phantom in a dark corner of his mind, just out of view; but now, as early morning rays filtered softly through the window and fell upon the girl's peaceful features in a warm, golden glow, it became painfully obvious, and the missing piece of his puzzle snapped jarringly into place. 

Somehow- in some foggy, distant memory- Michael knew this girl. He was sure of it.

Images flashed like a slideshow in his mind. He remembered white, pristine hallways, locked doors and claustrophobic rooms, and suddenly, Michael was a boy again. He was with someone- not someone like Loomis, with his stern expression and scornful tone- no, this person had been much different. It was one of the hospital staff. A nurse. 

She had a bright, warm smile, and when she spoke to him, her words were genuine. 

“Do you like books, Michael?” She had asked, removing two from her bag. Michael was indifferent towards books. He did, however, remember reading with his mother on the front porch, before the urge, before Judith. He supposed they were alright back then. 

“Loomis won’t be in today. Would you like to sit and read with me before bed?” 

Michael stared out the window, at a flock of passing birds. He gave no hint at his awareness.

The Nurse had simply smiled, taken his hand in hers and led him across the room to his sagging bed. She sat him across her lap and flipped through the crisp pages of a vivid storybook, to the beginning. Her soft hands combed through his hair as she read to him. Though the words themselves had fallen flat against Michael's ears, the Nurse had a gentle, soothing voice, like silk- so, Michael listened instead to the rise and fall of her pitch with the flow of the story.

For half an hour they sat together, until a shrill bell rang out from the speaker in Michael’s room, calling for lights-out. 

The nurse had tucked Michael under his covers, wished him a goodnight, and promised to read to him again the following day. 

She kept her promise. Every night, the Nurse came to visit Michael. She brought gifts with her, the kind that had been approved by the Sanitarium, which turned out to be mostly sweets. Michael ate them on his own after the Nurse had left, away from prying eyes. As with most things, Michael was apathetic towards the woman at first; but, she was relentless in her care for him, and gradually, he found himself slipping from his self-imposed daze as the hour of her visit grew near. 

He would shift his empty gaze from the wall or window as she walked in and meet her warm eyes. When they sat together, as Michael grew tired, he would allow his head to fall against her shoulder. With time, even the urge came to tolerate the woman’s presence, its constant nagging growing placid, almost dormant under her gentle touch. Almost.

For months the visits carried on. Every night, for half an hour, Michael Myers was treated very nearly like a normal little boy. 

Then, one evening, the nurse had been late. Michael was content with waiting for her. He was, after all, a very patient child; however, as the night dragged on, and the bell had sounded like an angry kettle in his ears, a woman did enter his room eventually, but it wasn’t the Nurse. This woman was unsmiling- distanced in her greeting of him, as if she found him about as interesting as a brick wall- and the had woman performed her duties and left without a word, leaving Michael to sit in the darkness, still waiting.

The Nurse never came back after that. Eventually, Michael’s memory of her faded.

The girl who lay before Michael now was not the Nurse. That much was glaringly obvious. Such a thing would not be possible, as that woman had been at least twenty years his senior. Even so, it could not be denied that her resemblance to the Nurse from his memories was strikingly uncanny.

Michael understood, now- he did not _like_ it, and he certainly did not _approve_ of it, but he understood nonetheless- and as he observed her fragile, shivering body, he knew with frustrating certainty that killing this girl would not appease his urge, would not bring about that momentary, fleeting satisfaction, would not stave away the discomfort of sudden emotion or restore the serendipity of his unfeeling void. 

The girl, who had snapped awake as if struck by lightning, now gazed up at him with wide, terrified eyes. She was unmoving, pinned under the weight of his blank stare and the grisly promise that his hovering knife held. Her chest rose and fell quickly.

The last of Michael’s impulsive bloodlust fled his body like a sickly dream. He let his arm fall limply to his side. Then he turned, without a second glance at the dazed, paling girl. The chipping floorboards moaned under his weight as he crossed the room and shut the creaking bedroom door with an air of finality.

Michael stood in the hallway. Behind him, stifled whimpers erupted into heavy sobs, shattering the thick silence as if it were glass. Michael’s shoulders tensed. He stared down in stiff consideration at the old, splintering floorboards beneath his boots. With one matter solved, another had sprouted like a stubborn weed to take its place, and the question still stood:

What, now, was he to do with this girl?

He couldn’t simply let her leave, for obvious reasons. She would be back again the next day with the authorities. At the very best, he would be returned to his claustrophobic room at Smith’s Grove, unable to act on his urges, all the while the voice howling like a feral animal in his mind with its deafening, insatiable cries.

Michael set his jaw. No, he wouldn’t allow that. Never again. The second option- the only realistic option- would be for him to keep her here. 

It wouldn’t be a difficult task- after all, with her injured foot, she had no realistic means of escape- but if she proved fool enough to try it he would threaten her, wrap his fingers around her soft throat and watch the defiance ebb from her eyes along with the consciousness from her body until at last she grew complacent.

It wasn’t a foolproof plan by any means; but for now, at least, it would have to do.

After a brief glance about the hallway and its adjoining rooms, Michael had located the heaviest object- an old china cabinet. It shrieked in protest as he began to push, upsetting the fine layer of dust which had collected on its shelves.

He planted the cabinet firmly in front of the bedroom door and stepped back to examine his work. Its dark wood had creaked under the considerable pressure of his strong hands, but still it stood, a proud, unwavering sentinel. It would do.

With matters settled, as if on que, the familiar nagging at the back of his mind had returned, calling out to him with a rekindled vitality. Michael was being summoned to the hunt. Some budding, crude emotion, not quite relief, blossomed in his gut. His fingers twiched in anticipation. Eager to start a new cycle, a complete, uninterrupted, unfragmented cycle, Michael gave himself completely to the urge, allowed its ravenous hunger to swallow up his body like a dark wave. 

As he stepped from the front door, the morning sun kissed the surface of his bloodless, gleaming knife- a wrong that he would right soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Falling asleep had been an accident; a mistake in every sense of the word.

One moment, you were watching the door with unshakable attentiveness, and the next, the warm caress of sleep had alighted over your battered body and sent you spiraling down the rabbit hole of unconsciousness.

You dreamt of nothingness; of a black, empty place, where you could neither breathe nor move, where the darkness bared down upon you like a press until you were paralyzed under the weight of it.

When you finally did wake, it was to an even worse nightmare.

Over you, frozen in time, stood Michael, his knuckles white around the handle of his gleaming knife. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move. This, you knew, was the end. 

Then, his raised hand had fallen limply to his side, and without hesitation he had turned from you, fled the room without so much as a parting glance. Your wide eyes lingered after him for a moment. Then, you came undone. Goosebumps pricked your clammy skin and you sobbed hard into tattered bedsheets until they were damp with your tears.

Outside the room, a harsh shriek rang out. You sat upright, listening intently, your eyes wide and alert through the cascade of stinging tears. The scraping stopped just outside the bedroom door. You heard the creak of retreating footsteps against the old wooden floor, and then all was silent.

You sat motionless with your knees tucked defensively into your chest. Long and uneventful minutes ticked by. Gradually, your shock faded, and your tears slowed to a steady trickle. 

Nothing moved in the house- Michael was gone. 

You wiped your eyes on the back of your hand and heaved a trembling exhale; you didn’t get it. Twice now Michael had moved to kill you, brought you to your breaking point, and then had backed off, as if it had all been some sick joke. 

Did he mean to terrify you? To force you to live with the knowledge that any moment in this awful place could be your last?

You had seen his eyes this time, watched them come to focus on your own. They had been piercingly cold, and black as coal, but not empty. A flicker of something, some unreadable emotion, had danced across them as he stared down at you from behind the stark white of his mask.

Maybe, just maybe, Michael Myers was not entirely hollow. Perhaps seeing you squirm and sob under his very gaze fed some sadistic tendency of his. 

Or perhaps, it occurred to you, Michael truly _was_ conflicted. 

Your brow furrowed sharply at the notion- the idea seemed blasphemous. So far, your tormenter had existed in your mind as a monster, a remorseless predator, a being free from the burden of human emotion and driven by instinct alone. To think that such a monster could suddenly become a man, well- 

You knew better than to delude yourself with such fantasies. 

The sun rose outside your milky window and reached its summit in the sky. Warm light spilled across your body in revealing rays and shone with painful clarity on your bruised, raw skin. You cringed at the sight of yourself.

Deep purple discoloration, like spilled ink, splotched your wrists where Michael had seized your hands in his iron grasp. Your injured ankle was especially hard to look at; even worse than its tenderness or searing itch, its swollen, shiny red clawed tauntingly down your foot and served to remind you of your helplessness.

You bit back the frustrated tears which threatened your puffy eyes. You felt impotent- weak, feeble and utterly impotent- but, even after the sun had reached its peak in the sky, and begun to fall again, you dared not move, for fear of somehow incurring Michael’s silent wrath.

You would have been perfectly content to stay there, too, balled up on the bed, were it not for the burning of your throat with every flustered breath. Your chapped lips had become as coarse and rough as sandpaper, and only worsened with each swipe of your tongue.

Hesitantly, you lifted your eyes to meet the grainy wood of the closed bathroom door.

The blurry memory of Michael looming there, frozen in the doorframe, sent a violent shudder down your spine. It was almost enough for you to grit your teeth and bare the impending dehydration- you really didn’t want to set foot in there.

Still, though, the thought of being at your captor’s fleeting mercy for such a basic need as water left an acrid taste in your mouth. In fact, the notion of having to ask Michael for _anything_ made your fingers curl in bitter resentment.

You set your jaw decidedly. This, at least, you could do yourself.

You took hold of the bedframe and eased yourself onto one foot with a grunt; you immediately wished you hadn’t.

Dizziness and nausea hit you like a punch to the gut, and you swayed, nearly lost your grip as you fell against the creaking wall. You bit your lip to stifle a rising groan; your desperate spill out the window had come back to haunt you.

Still, you would not be deterred. You scrabbled for a grip against the splintering wooden walls until your roving fingers found a ledge, and you limped to the closed door, seized its clammy handle with shaking hands. It shrieked open in cackling ridicule.

The bathroom was dark. Unsettlingly so. It swam and swirled like a living thing. You fumbled for the light switch. Then, your eyes fell on the sink.

There, staining an ocean of porcelain white, ran streaks of angry crimson, caked like gory paint in their trickle towards the drain. The metallic tinge slammed you like a truck. The color fled your face. You didn’t realize you had fallen until your trembling fingers wandered over cold, splintering floorboards.

You could still smell it. Even from your feverish daze on the floor, its sickeningly sweet copper smothered your senses and turned you sicker with every quivering inhale. Your feeble composure crumpled like a deadened leaf. You cried until you thought you would drown on your tears. You hoped you would. Prayed you would. Anything to escape this vicious, suffocating whirlpool of dashed hope and crushing helplessness. So lost you were in your ocean of shivering despair that the creak of approaching bootsteps, the heavy grating of wood against wood, fell blissfully flat against your ears, until it was too late.

Through your tears you saw him. He stood in the doorway, a silent observer, his dark eyes assessing the commotion.

You scrambled to your knees as if a fire had been lit under the floorboards. 

“I- I wasn’t-“ You stammered, breathless, “I’m not trying to- I just want-“

The words would not come out. The weight of Michael’s piercing stare came crashing down upon you like a brick wall, and suddenly, you could no longer bare to look at him. You turned away with shallow gasps and let your head fall limply against the bathroom door.

 _I Just want water_ , you finished in your thoughts, when your wavering voice could not. 

It was a lie, though; you did not just want water. You wanted to get as far away from this place, from this murderer, as possible. You wanted to snap your fingers and wake up in your own bed, to smile and laugh at yourself for having been so worked up over such a silly, stupid nightmare.

With a quivering exhale, you hugged your knees tightly to your chest- tried to ignore the muffled wheeze of Michael’s breathing- and pretended that he really wasn’t there, that he didn’t exist, that he truly was a phantom, and maybe, just maybe, if you squeezed your eyes shut tight enough and counted to three he would vanish into the darkness like a fleeting dream.

_One._

The creak of old wood betrayed his slow approach.

_Two._

You felt the brush of his pantleg against your clammy skin, the closeness of his body hovering over yours.

_Three._

All was deathly still. You did not open your eyes. Not as strong hands slipped beneath your quivering arms, not as you left the cold ground or felt the embrace of Michael’s surprising warmth.

Gone were his brutality and staunch indifference of the night prior. Now, he held you as if you were some delicate, curious object, an expensive vase, a fragile doll. You turned away from the heat of his chest and let your silent tears drip down reddened cheeks; this time, you would not fight him.

The cool fabric of worn sheets caressed your shivering body as he laid you down again. He seemed to linger over you for a moment- observing some unseen thing- and then, his heavy bootsteps retreated towards the door. Your eyes flew open. Desperation prevailed over thought.

You choked back your stifling fear and called out after the dark figure.

“Wait- please, wait.” You pleaded, in a voice as fragile as a breeze.

Michael froze. His hand lingered above the door handle. He did not turn to face you.

The heavy silence prevailed, leaving you to grasp at fleeting words; you hadn’t been expecting a reaction. 

“I just- water. I need water. Please.” You bit your tongue before it could do you further damage.

Michael stood a rigid statue in the doorway. There was no sign of comprehension in his tense posture. You shrunk back against the bedframe. You had made a mistake. You were sure of it. You waited in silent horror for him to turn on you, to fall upon your shivering body with all the fury of his wordless rage.

Instead, his hand fell decidedly away from the handle. The door was left open as he stepped into the fading light of hallway. 

You listened for the sound of his footsteps in the kitchen, heard the squeak of a cabinet, the roar of the faucet; then, Michael appeared again in the doorway, a glass of water clutched tightly in hand. 

He set it down carefully on the nightstand. You bristled at the proximity. He hovered over you as you reached hastily for the glass, his observant gaze flicking across your body in wordless evaluation. 

The water was lukewarm and tasted strongly of fluoride. A stray drop had splashed out, carrying with it a streak of deep crimson; a set of bloody fingerprints stained the side of glass. 

Your stomach churned. You tried your hardest to keep the liquid down as you brought it again to your lips.

You did not meet Michael’s stare when you set the empty cup down again. You hoped that he would leave; he did not. Hesitantly, you lifted your gaze to the stark, blank white of his mask.

“Thank you.”

Half the night came and went without incident. You didn’t sleep; you knew better, now. 

Instead, you lay on your side, facing the door, listening intently to the gentle scrape of gnarled branches against your window, to rustle of leaves in the wind, to the creak of old wood. Listening for any possible sign of Michael’s approach. 

You brushed off a stubborn yawn and ignored the heaviness in your eyelids; you would not suffer through a repeat of yesterday morning. This time, at the very least, you would hear his approach. It was your only solace, the one reason to stave away the sleep your body so desperately craved. 

When the doorknob finally did turn, it was abrupt, and without warning.

You startled violently and grappled for the edge of the bed. Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach; you hadn’t even heard him coming. 

You had little more than a second to regain your feeble composure before Michael was standing in the doorway, his outline drenched in pale filtered moonlight. 

You forced your shallow breaths to steady and watched his ghostly form through lidded eyes. There was no sharp glint of metal in his relaxed hands, no hint of a blade in sight at all- but, even in the darkness, you felt the piercing glare of his eyes on you, observing you, assessing you.

It was like watching a predator preparing to pounce on helpless prey.

A tense minute passed. Still, Michael lingered in the doorway. He watched intently, his eyes never leaving you; you wondered if he was seeing right through your act.

When Michael finally did move, it was sudden and sure, and free from hesitation. His dark figure seemed to glide across the floor as he approached. Every muscle in your body went rigid; your fingers curled tightly into fists. Michael did not walk towards you, though- he went around the bed, opposite the side on which you lay.

Panic clambered up your throat like a fleeing animal; you had waited too long to act. 

The bed dipped down. Your heart jolted. Springs creaked and whined in protest.

You stared vigilantly at Michael’s shadow on the wall; it danced threateningly across the wood as he moved, a dark phantom, a grim promise. You waited in frozen horror for his rough fingers to reach out, to seize your throat in a deathly grasp and finish what he had started days ago. 

Instead, his shadow vanished. You held your breath. A stiff and awkward silence settled over the room like a thick blanket, broken only by the draw of Michael’s breaths. Then, the realization struck: 

Michael had laid down. On the bed. Next to you.

Your wide-eyed stare of panic furrowed into one of utter confusion. Despite your bewilderment, however, you dared not move. You watched the passage of time in the shifting moon, stretching and warping shadows as it rose to its peak in the night sky; and, only when Michael’s breathing had become rhythmic and steady did you summon the courage to face him. You shifted your head slowly. He lay still beside you, his face and body turned away from yours. The same dark coveralls which he hadn’t bothered to change from covered his broad figure, the fabric slack over his relaxed muscles.

As your eyes focused in the hazy blackness, muddled shapes becoming coherent and taking form, another realization dawned-

-the mask was gone.

You now stared, with equal parts fear and awe, at the back of Michael’s uncovered head.

His hair fell in a messy halo across his pillow, the wavy ringlets an indiscernible color under the pale light of the moon. His chest rose and fell steadily. You were taken aback by the serenity in his sleeping form- gone was the faceless murderer who had stalked you through the dark, the unstoppable, inhuman force that had swept you away like a hurricane to this awful place- you hadn’t imagined Michael capable of looking so _normal_.

To top it all off, it was a novel idea that someone such as Michael, seemingly void of emotion and basic human needs, still eventually succumbed to his body’s whims. The simple act of falling asleep had been a startling display of humanity.

Briefly, you considered stealing a glance at Michael’s face. Perhaps having an appearance to associate him with beyond that awful blank mask of his would help to ease your nerves. 

However, you quickly discarded the idea. The thought of him waking up, of those dark, dangerous eyes snapping suddenly open to meet your own, sent a clammy shudder down your spine. Presently vulnerable state aside, you knew the man’s strength all too well- you bore the evidence of it on your body- and even if he seemed to be playing nice, you weren’t about to risk setting him off. 

Your wide eyes lingered on Michael’s sleeping form a moment longer, drinking in the surreal image, and then you tore yourself away, turned your head to face the wall. 

Exactly when you fell asleep, you couldn’t be sure.

Your blinked once. It was light. Your eyes came to focus on the rickety nightstand next to the bed, and you stared blankly at the glass which sat atop it; it had been refilled to the brim.

Then, you remembered Michael.

You sat up with a panicked jolt. Your eyes fell on the mattress next to you, but were met with only disheveled covers. You hugged your arms close to your body- you half expected Michael to be lurking in some shadowy corner of the room- however, as you glanced about, the silent figure was nowhere to be seen.

You turned again to consider the glass with a deep frown. You weren’t sure what to make of this; what kind of twisted game was Michael playing? His hostility toward you seemed to have ceased at the drop of a hat, and, his stubborn silence aside, Michael had begun to act surprisingly _human_ \- 

Or, at the very least, less like a faceless monster.

You stared in silent contemplation at the stray drop dribbling down the side of the cup and wondered, with growing uncertainty, which version of Michael was the mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter was a bit slow and/or lacking in quality, this is already the longest thing I've ever written, so I'm still trying to gauge the direction I want to take this in. The story will pick up soon, I promise :]  
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long chapter for you guys! There's a POV switch about half way through, which switches from Michael's perspective back to yours. I hope you guys don't mind the little detour I took with Michael, I could have omitted his portion of the chapter to the same effect, but it was getting a little bit boring to write the same location over and over again, haha. I'll probably be settling into a weekly update schedule now, so expect a new chapter by next Friday at the latest.

Five nights passed, and Michael had spent each one with the girl curled up tightly on the opposite side of the mattress.

On the first night, he hadn’t been keen in the slightest on the idea of sharing a bed; however, as the hours dragged on, and sleeping in a rickety chair proved to be incredibly inconvenient (his head kept lolling to the side), the prospect of a decent night’s rest became more and more inviting, until the fact that the bed was already occupied became pale in comparison.

The girl had made sure to keep her distance from him. She had slept lightly, so that even the shifting of his weight on the mattress had roused her and shattered any hope of her continued rest; but, day in and day out, Michael made no move to harm her, and with setting of the sun on the fifth night, the girl seemed to have grown begrudgingly accustomed his presence.

Michael was careful to leave before she woke again in the morning. However, on occasion, he found himself lingering over the girl's sleeping body, just to observe her. In these serene moments he thought of the Nurse. He imagined the gentle lilt of her voice, felt her soft hands working diligently through his messy waves.

The urge, ever a jealous thing, was not fond of Michael’s straying attention. The longer Michael dawdled, lost in the past, the more impatient it became, until it was tugging voraciously at his thoughts and calling him to the hunt with a wolfish hunger. In the end, its relentless nagging always won out. 

Today, however, Michael resisted its vicious pull for just a little bit longer; something had captured his attention.

It was the girl’s injured ankle. Gone was the angry red swelling that had signified her crippled state, replaced now by shifting hues of bruised purple. Michael gazed at the messy discoloration with darkening eyes; the injury was healing quickly. Soon enough, the girl would be able to walk.

Michael’s brow furrowed. The solution to the problem was obvious enough; and yet, the thought of reaching out, of seizing her peaceful body in a crushing grip and rendering her foot truly useless, left him with an odd feeling in his gut.

The girl shifted suddenly on the bed. She adjusted her head over the downy pillow and crinkled her nose when a stray hair fell over her face.

There was a ruffle as Michael pulled on his mask. He would have to deal with her later- for now, the urge could wait no longer. His bootsteps creaked quietly down the hallway and out the door before the girl could fully come to her senses.

Hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky with warm and buttery hues of gold, Michael stalked his prey. 

He had first spotted the young couple as they lay huddled together in the middle of a wide turf field. They were dressed in skin-tight running attire, their faces flushed, hair disheveled and heavy with sweat. Michael kept his distance as he observed. 

The boy had begun to tease his girlfriend; he grabbed her damp shirt from the ground and jumped up, dodging her flying hands and darting back and forth with cat-like agility. His rapturous laughter carried over the field.

The girl was quick to take the bait. They had chased one another in a lively game of keep away until both had tired, and then collapsed to the turf in a panting, sweaty heap.

The boy’s mouth moved around indiscernible words and the girl had flashed him a beaming grin, cupped his face in her hands and pulled him into a hungry kiss; it was unrefined, sloppy, but the passion was evident. Michael watched the scene unfold with an unblinking stare- inwardly, the urge swelled with excitement- and as the couple broke apart to head for their car, leaning on each other and laughing at their own disheveled state, the hunt was on.

Michael trailed behind them at a crawl as they rounded a street corner and pulled into a sleepy neighborhood. Proud and tidy houses sprawled in uniform splendor down the street, each perfectly manicured lawn flaunting a shade tree, which carried along in the gentle breeze a symphony of rustling leaves. 

The couple’s car pulled into a sloped drive-way; so enthralled with each other they were that as they climbed out, jesting and joking at the other’s expense, neither took any notice of the masked figure observing them from just across the street.

He waited patiently in his car for the dying light to vanish. Then, when the moon shone full and fat overhead, and the urge welled uncomfortably within his chest, Michael grew restless. The pale moonlight caught the curve of his blade swinging with his stride as he approached the house.

Bright lights and music flooded the lower floor, seeping out from under half-shuddered windows. Michael gazed into the house through open blinds. 

The couple stood in a messy kitchen, condiments and utensils strewn haphazardly about the counter, pots set to boil atop a stove. The boy dipped a spoon into one of the pots and blew on the liquid, then held it out with a sheepish grin for the girl to taste. She sampled it gingerly; then, her face contorted in exaggerated disgust, and she spit into the sink. The boy doubled over in laughter. The girl shoved at his shoulder, said something inaudible, then made swiftly for the garage.

Michael stepped away from the window as she passed. The urge screamed at him now, growing needy and impatient, elevating the pressure in his chest from a dull ache to a raw, throbbing burn. His pulse quickened and beat excitedly against his temple; his fingers whitened around the hilt of his knife. He pivoted on his heel and strode towards the weathered door at the side of the house. Its brassy knob nearly gave under the pressure of his strong hands; then, the door swung open without a sound, and Michael stepped silently into the pitch-blackness of a cluttered, musty garage. 

The girl burst through the front door only moments later. She hummed along to the tune which blared from the house behind her, her back towards Michael as she fumbled in the dark for a light switch; she failed to notice the shape lingering behind her in the shadows even as bright fluorescent lights flooded the garage. 

The girl sank to her knees to rummage through dusty shelves. Michael advanced, unseen; the urge sang joyously. 

The girl then stood, and turned, now hugging a glass jar in her arms. It shattered with a booming crash to floor as Michael seized her by the neck. 

Her eyes grew into wide, bulging saucers. She tried to scream; the sound died in her throat. Michael towered over her, his mask bathed in a hellish glow, and the girl looked as though she had seen the face of death itself. Her manicured nails drew burning streaks of red across his skin as she thrashed. Michael’s grip did not falter. The girl twisted violently, threw desperate kicks at his stomach, pounded at his chest with white-knuckled fists, but Michael was unphased, felt no pain, felt nothing but the burning, ravenous desire to strike.

He raised his gleaming knife above his head. His pulse beat like a drum, hot and heavy in his ears. 

It erupted into a booming applause as he plunged the blade swiftly downward. Cold steel cleaved neatly through hot flesh and tissue, and the girl sputtered wordlessly, her mouth gaping, dumbstruck. Michael relaxed his grip. The girl collapsed back like a weightless ragdoll, soaking the white fridge behind her with deep streaks of bold crimson. Michael’s fingers curled around the slippery handle of the blade and he yanked hard, raised it once more above his head, only to bring it down again with deadly accuracy; the blade plunged through the girl’s throat with a wet squelch. Red erupted from the puncture in a hot, sticky waterfall; it trickled in a steady stream and dripped on Michael’s boots. 

The girl slumped into a twitching heap to the clammy floor. She gurgled and wheezed wetly, her hands twitching around the tatters of her ruined throat, grabbing at nothing. She stared up, past Michael, at the bright ceiling lights. Michael watched the focus ebb from her glassy eyes. Finally, she lay still.

Michael stared blankly down at the red pooling below his feet; It was not enough to satisfy. 

Still the urge nagged at him, tugged sharply at his thoughts, demanding more- Michael obliged. He tracked red over sandy beige tile as he stepped into the hallway of the house.

The boy put up a harder fight. He had turned at the sound of Michael’s approach, mouth agape in a playful grin, as though about to make some jesting remark. The words died on his lips at the sight of the bloody intruder. The boy had lunged for a kitchen knife, but Michael was already upon him, seizing his arm in a vice-like grip and wrenching it back, away from the counter. There was a dull pop as Michael squeezed, and the boy uttered a strangled, furious cry. He jerked away violently and fumbled with his free hand through an open drawer. 

Michael struck with a ravenous blow; a gash blossomed on his target’s bare chest, just as the boy’s fingers curled around a steak knife, which he raised and swung desperately, catching Michael forcefully across the shoulder. The blade ripped through thick fabric and deep into muscle. Michael stumbled, his iron grip loosening just enough for the thrashing boy to tear free, who then flew in a desperate sprint for the back door.

Michael lunged and caught him by his foot. The boy fell hard into the stove with a crack, his flailing arms knocking askew a cast-iron pot. Boiling liquid splashed out, sizzling and bubbling angrily where it landed on exposed skin. The boy’s bloody cries were lost against the roar of blaring music. He watched the fall of Michael’s knife through blurry tears; then, just like that, the hunt was over.

Michael stepped back to consider his gruesome work. Momentary satisfaction swelled like a balloon in his chest, as if the urge were congratulating him for a job well done. 

Then, there was a wetness at his arm. Michael glanced down. His eyes fell on the steady stream of blood that now pooled at his palm, plinking to the floor in heavy droplets. Suddenly, the angry stinging in his shoulder registered, and Michael craned his neck to examine the injury which had already slipped his mind. 

The fabric of his sleeve was hopelessly shredded, its navy-blue blossoming with deep red where it clung to his skin. Poking through just underneath the stained fabric was a messy, jagged gash, where the knife had sliced unevenly through the tissue of his shoulder and clavicle. Michael traced along the throbbing wound with his finger. 

Burning sensation aside, the pain was muted, almost distant, as if the injury belonged to someone else entirely and Michael was simply an outsider looking in. Such a thing was a common occurrence, and one that Michael didn’t care to question. It allowed him to bear his pain in stoic silence.

Michael indulged the pestering injury no further on his drive home. He set his stained knife gingerly down on the dining room table and went about examining its gory, dulled state in the low light. His fingers flexed in agitation at the messy sight.

It wasn’t in Michael’s nature to bother with tidiness; however, with his knife, it was another matter entirely. To clean it after every hunt, return it to a pristine and bloodless state, was as much an obsession as his mask or his voluntary mutism. Michael ignored the growing heaviness in his eyelids and retreated to the kitchen in search of a rag.

Only when the gore was gone, and the blade shone vibrantly as he turned it over in the dim light, was Michael’s work at last complete. Sudden exhaustion surged within him, and he could stave off sleep no longer.

The old staircase creaked beneath his boots as he headed for the bedroom. He planted his bloody palms firmly on the barricading cabinet and shoved, but with the slickness of his hands, moving it proved to be a frustratingly difficult task. Michael tensed his jaw; his shoulder ached.

The girl was not asleep. She perked as Michael appeared in the doorway, her apprehensive eyes following him with the wariness of a rabbit watching a fox, and although she tried to hide it, Michael noticed the way her body tensed at the sight of him, as if seized head to toe by an icy chill.

Michael paid her no further attention as he moved to sit down, dripping wound and all, on the white bedsheets.

**POV You**

Blood. All you saw was blood.

Even in the pale light, the caked red streaks were impossible to miss. They trickled down Michael’s arm like paint and dripped in messy splotches to the floor. Your breath shallowed at the sight of the gory figure who lingered before you. Just what had Michael done?

It was a stupid question, of course; his crimes were obvious. He bore the grisly evidence of them proudly on his clothing. Ghastly images flashed in your mind, of pooling red and ruined bodies, and Michael towering above it all, unfeeling, uncaring. Was he finally done playing games?

Tears threatened your eyes. Not until Michael moved from the hallway, walked in sluggish strides towards the bed, did it even occur to you that it might be _his_ blood.

Then, your eyes fell on his arm. The fabric of his sleeve was in tatters, torn from collar to shoulder, and damp where it clung to his skin. That was not the worst of it, though; as Michael approached the bed, you caught a glimpse of a glistening gash shining through the mess of stained and ragged fabric. 

Your eyes grew wide. The realization dawned; Michael was hurt.

You bit your lip. Should you say something? What on earth was there possibly to say? Nothing seemed appropriate.

At least, not until Michael began to lower himself, bloody palms first, to the bed.

“Wait, wait-“ You cried, hugging your side of the sheets to spare them from the dripping mess. 

Michael stilled. Slowly, almost inquisitively, he tilted his head to stare at you. You tensed at his rigidness, your mouth growing dry as you grabbed at fleeting words.

“I don’t think you should- I mean, it probably isn’t good to- uh…” 

Your voice trailed off under the weight of Michael’s blank stare. Somehow, you doubted that he got the message. You let loose a shaky exhale. 

“Sorry- here.” You said, sitting up slowly. Rather than trying and presumably failing to get the proper words out, it might be best to simply show him.

You stood carefully and eased yourself gingerly onto the moaning floorboards. You grimaced as your foot took your weight; now, you were able to manage a slow limp, but the damage was self-evident, and the injury was still far from healed. 

Michael’s intense gaze bored into you from across the bed. You felt the burn of his dark eyes on your back as you turned and knew that he was watching your every move with raptorial intrigue. You avoided his stare and limped, with great care, to the bathroom. 

Thankfully, the dried blood in the sink was no more; Michael had taken to washing his knife in the kitchen. Still, a stubborn tremble seized your fingers as you pried your way into the dusty cabinets beneath the vanity, ever-haunted by the possibility of finding some gory surprise amongst the clutter.

Your search yielded a single clean washcloth. You turned the squeaky faucet, ran the water until it flowed warm. As you dampened the cloth, you spared a glance across the room at Michael.

As expected, the bloody figure hadn’t moved. He sat straight and rigid on the bed, hands in his lap, ever the steadfast observer. You looked away quickly, your mouth twitching into a taught frown. If only you could read minds; you wanted to know what went through Michael’s when he stared at you with such unreadable intensity.

You did not meet his gaze as you crossed the room in a slow limp to the bed. Hesitantly, you sank down on the mattress next to Michael. You were mindful of your spacing; you gave him a wide berth, sat beyond the reach of his dangerous hands. Of course, you knew that such a transient barrier would not deter him if he were overcome with the desire to hurt you, but nonetheless, you took comfort in the distance.

“Here.” You held out the cloth for Michael to take. Still, you could not bring yourself to meet his dark gaze, so your eyes fell instead to the tattered ruins of his sleeve.

Seconds ticked past, and Michael did not move. He seemed perfectly content to leave you with your hand dangling awkwardly in the air. Your fingers twitched anxiously around the washcloth. You drew a shallow breath.

Had you offended him somehow? Should you apologize, back off before he slipped from his apparent daze? It was only blood, you supposed, and if he kept on his side of the bed, perhaps you could ignore it…

Your train of thought shattered as Michael suddenly raised his hand to take the cloth. His wet fingers brushed against yours, drawing crimson streaks across your skin. You shuddered at the sensation; thankfully, his dark eyes had fallen from you, and you no longer appeared to be the object of his attention. You watched in covert intrigue as Michael ran the rag slowly through his fingers. Then, his hands clean, he let the bloody cloth fall to the floor with a squelch. You tensed your jaw. Had he forgotten about his shoulder?

Michael sat back to lay down. You nearly let him this time, fearing that you had already pushed your luck; but the thought of waking up to bloody bedsheets, to that sickening copper smell, proved too much to stomach. You swallowed hard.

“Sorry, wait.“ The words left your mouth in a quiet, feeble voice.

Michael’s shoulders tensed again. Then, he tilted his head with a deliberate slowness, as if to ask, _What now? What could you possibly want now?_

It took all your strength not to crumple under the weight of his dark stare. You avoided his eyes and bent down to pluck the bloody cloth from the floor. With a downward gaze, you shuffled sheepishly across the bed, towards the rigid figure.

The closeness grew immediately uncomfortable. You knew that Michael was watching your every move from behind the blankness of his mask. The hairs of your arms pricked straight in sudden alarm, but you ignored your body’s warning, and inched closer still.

Then, when you were close enough to touch him, you extended your arm, ever so slowly. Your hand hovered gingerly in the air, asking for permission to continue.

“Would you- would you mind if I…” You began to ask. There was no need to finish the question; it was obvious what you intended to do.

Michael did not pull away from your hand, did not lunge suddenly to seize your wrist in a crushing grip. He simply stared. You avoided his eyes, tried to ignore the closeness of his hovering mask as your fingers closed the distance to meet the fabric of his coveralls.

You were quick to find the brass zipper. Then, slowly, with all the caution of one handling a dangerous, feral predator, your fingers curled around the cool metal and you dragged the zipper downwards. You held your breath, gauging Michael’s reaction; still, nothing.

You unzipped until his sleeves shrugged away from his shoulders. Underneath, he wore a black shirt, but it too had been soaked through, its dark fabric stained darker still. The steady rise and fall of Michael’s broad chest was more apparent now, and your wandering eyes traced the contour of toned muscle where the shirt clung wetly to his skin; it was no small wonder that the man could handle you with such ease.

Again, Michael sat statue-still. You marveled at his inaction; you were surprised that he was allowing this. Slowly, your hands worked around the fabric of his undershirt, rolling back the sleeve. Your fingers brushed lightly against his skin. He was like a furnace under your clammy fingers, and you could not help but shudder at the contact; your hands came away red.

Michael’s exposed arm glistened in the flickering light, his entire shoulder now soaked in deep crimson. Then, your eyes fell on the gash; you grit your teeth.

It was deep- that much was apparent- though, how deep exactly, you couldn’t be sure. There was too much blood. It did not flow from the wound now so much as trickle, but already vast swaths of drying red stained his arm. You stared in morbid fascination at the gory sight, then marveled further at Michael’s complete and total disregard for the injury; had he truly intended to try and “sleep this off?”

You released the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Slowly, you brought your eyes to meet Michael’s, found them beneath the shadow of his mask.

“You have to clean that.” You stated, holding out the washcloth once more. It took every strand of willpower not to shy away from Michael’s eye contact; his empty glare remained frustratingly unreadable.

“Please clean it.”

Michael did not break off his stare as he took the washcloth once more from your clammy hands. He set about swiping the rag down the length of his arm, but the effort was half-hearted, and all the while, those dark eyes did not leave you. You shifted uncomfortably.

Your eyes fell away from Michael- to your lap, to your blood-soaked fingers, to the old wooden floorboards beneath your feet- anywhere but at Michael as you offered him your final piece of advice.

“Uh, you should put pressure on it, too.” You suggested quietly, then elaborated, “With the towel, I mean. To stop the bleeding.”

Michael made no move to entertain your suggestion. Your shoulders slouched. That was the end of it, then; you had done all you could to spare the sheets from Michael’s mess.

You stared absently down at the caking, dirty red beneath your fingernails. Your stomach churned at the sight of it- your skin itched furiously, as if stung by nettle- and suddenly you could no longer stand its presence. You rose slowly from the bed with a quiet grunt, intending to make your way to the sink and rid yourself of the gore. A strong hand at your wrist halted you in your tracks.

You nearly toppled in surprise. A shrill, panicked cry fled your lips. You spun, your widening eyes falling on Michael’s rigid form; his did not meet yours, though. This time, something on the floor had captured his interest.

The jarring realization struck like a hammer. You bit back a whimper.

Michael’s unwavering gaze had locked onto your injured foot.

A horrible stillness fell over the room. You didn’t breathe- didn’t dare to move- only sunk like a stone into a lake of icy dread.

How could you have possibly been so stupid? You had missed it before, but now, the grim reality of your situation was painfully obvious; the one thing reigning in Michael’s brutality had been your crippled, helpless state. Now, with that protective barrier shattered, what was to stop Michael from seizing your ankle in his rough hands, from squeezing and squeezing until your bones cracked like twigs under the pressure of his horrible, brutish strength? From rendering you once again helpless?

Michael rose suddenly. Tears stung your eyes. He tilted his head to stare vigilantly down at you. Your quivering knees caved, and you fell back down to the bed, fingers clutching a handful of sheets to steady yourself for what you were sure came next.

Instead, Michael released your trembling hand, shrugged his slightly-less-bloody sleeves back over his significantly-less-bloody shoulders and ran the zipper up his coveralls. He crossed the room in long strides, to the bathroom. His fingers found the light switch. You were plunged into suffocating darkness.

The creak of Michael’s returning footsteps surged towards you and scrambled out of his way, retreated hastily to your side of the bed. Your breaths came quick and shallow. You scanned the blackness with wide, fearful eyes, watching vigilantly for Michael’s dark figure.

Then, you felt the tell-tale dip of the mattress, heard the ruffle of hair over latex, caught the silhouette of Michael’s mask as it left his head and disappeared to some unseen place in the stiff blackness.

You hugged your knees to your chest, waiting for Michael to turn away from you, to face the wall as he had done without fail in the nights prior; however, this time, when he at last sank down on top of disheveled covers, you caught the glint of his sharp eyes in the darkness.

He was watching you. He was making sure you knew it, too.

You weren’t stupid- you understood his implications perfectly well- he was warning you.

Nevertheless, the frigid claws of tension which had seized your trembling body melted like ice before a hopeful fire. You squeezed your eyes shut, allowed a long, shivering exhale to fall from your lips. You were being let off with a warning; a wordless promise, one that transcended words;

Behave yourself, and no harm would come to you by Michael’s hand.

Hot, silent tears streamed down your cheeks in a surge of undiluted relief. You let them fall. You weren’t certain that you would have survived the shock of another debilitating injury, or the crushing helplessness went hand in hand with it.

Slowly, you brought your eyes to meet Michael’s unwavering stare- found his sharp eyes among the blackness- and signed with nothing but a glance some unspoken, fanciful contract. You would behave.

Still, Michael did not turn away from you. When your eyes at last focused in the swimming blackness, you let your gaze flit across his shadowy figure. It was far too dark to pick apart the features of his face; however, your roving eyes did notice something curious.

Clutched tightly to the pale silhouette of Michael’s shoulder was a dark shape. You squinted. Then, the shadow took form; it was the washcloth, you realized, just as you had suggested.

Michael had weighed your words, found merit in them. He had seen _reason._

Your implications about Michael, which you had so stubbornly clung to in the nights prior, were swept away like sand in the wake of a revealing tide; this was not the sort of behavior you would expect from a hollow monster. Surely _some_ shred of humanity, however dormant or repressed, still existed within Michael; and if it did, you would bring it out.

You caught Michael’s watchful eyes once more, returned his vigilant stare. Then, with a steadying breath, you spoke.

“Your name… it’s Michael, isn’t it?” You asked, your voice a whisper, as if you were divulging some great secret to the man across from you.

For a fleeting moment, Michael seemed to become entirely still- he did not blink, did not draw breath. Perhaps you had imagined it; perhaps you hadn’t.

Either way, his silence alone spoke volumes.


	6. Chapter 6 Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, jeez... It's been more than a week, hasn't it?
> 
> Yeah, I really dropped the ball on my whole "schedule" thing. I don't really have an excuse other than I wrote too much, too quickly, and burned myself out. This time around, I'm not making any promises about when I'll be able to update, since I have a difficult time keeping said promises. 
> 
> Anyway, about this chapter. It's super important that you guys know that this AINT THE FULL CHAPTER. There's a part two, which I'm still revising, and it explains Michael's odd behavior with a POV shift to his perspective. I'm not very happy with the current state of this chapter, and I know that this first part of it isn't super entertaining, but it's building up to something FUN if you catch my drift. It'll make more sense when the second part is out, I promise!
> 
> So, to summarize, I'm sorry for disappearing off the face of the planet, no this is not the full chapter, and yes I know that this chapter is pure sewage. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

When you had succumbed that night to the blackness of sleep, something marvelous occurred- against the odds, your rest had gone entirely undisturbed.

Sunlight broke through the blinds of the overhead window and shone on your eyelids in a harsh gleam. You screwed up your face and shied away from the light, tried to find refuge by tossing and turning against the cool fabric of your pillow; but, the glare was relentless, and finally you yielded to the rising sun. You blinked your eyes open-

-and you saw blue. A whole lot of blurry blue.

You jerked your head back as your eyes struggled to make sense of the too-close image. Oh, of course- it was only Michael. The blue had been the fabric of his sleeve. Your face had practically been buried in his arm.

To your half-asleep brain, that explanation sounded perfectly reasonable. Dull seconds ticked past before your groggy mind managed to process why exactly that revelation was so remarkable.

Then, like a jolt of lightning, the realization struck; Michael was still here. It was morning, and Michael was still asleep, still sprawled out on top of the covers, blissfully unaware that you were now awake and staring at him. Your eyes grew saucer-wide. Slowly, with immense hesitancy, your gaze shifted from his chest, to his shoulders, and all the way up, until-

-you held your breath. Your eyes settled, in the full light of the morning, on Michael’s unmasked face.

This time, there was no blanket of thick darkness to obscure Michael’s features, and nothing to prevent your eyes from flitting lawlessly across his sleeping figure. You were taken aback as you drank in the forbidden image. Michael looked nothing at all like you had been expecting. With the sun casting its gentle rays across his restful face, bathing his angular features in a golden glow and filtering through his not-quite-blonde ringlets, the man who lay before you looked ironically angelic.

You stayed like that, staring at Michael, your head frozen in place against your pillow, as the sun crept higher into the sky. As odd as it sounded even to your own ears, there was some strange comfort to be gleaned from the peaceful scene. A week had passed since you had laid eyes on another human face, and it was all-too easy to fall into a blissful fantasy that the young man asleep at your side was not the same person who had abducted you, nor had he been the one to nearly choke you to death with his bare hands, nor had he wordlessly threatened you with a carving knife.

Minutes passed before you finally noticed the scar; which, in hindsight, was impressive, as it stood out as the only noticeable blemish on Michael’s face. It was raised and white, and it cut in a jagged path across his browbone, and down his eyelid. Your lips pulled into a shallow frown as you considered the puffy discoloration. Your mind ran wild with fanciful explanations for the cause of the scar, and you knew that you would have to draw your own conclusions about the blemish; you would get no verbal answers out of Michael.

The mystery of Michael’s scar was quickly dwarfed by another. More than anything, you marveled at the fact that the typically imposing figure was still dozing silently away. Not that you were complaining, of course- Michael was far less intimidating this way. Still, the peculiarity of the situation had to be acknowledged. Michael had seemed so deliberate in his efforts to wake every morning before you did, to leave no trace of his presence, save for the warmth of his body heat against the sheets. So, why now had he slipped-up?

Then, you recalled Michael’s injury, remembered the vast swathes of slick blood dripping from his sleeves, and the reason became painfully obvious; Even if it hadn’t shown in his actions, Michael’s body must have been exhausted. He had, after all, lost a dangerous quantity of blood. A flurry of question sprung to mind: Had his wound been able to clot? Had the bleeding stopped? Slowly, with exceeding care, you shoved your hands beneath your stomach and propped yourself up against the mattress, intending to peak over Michael’s broad chest, and steal a glance at his shoulder.

The bedframe gave a horrible creak beneath you. Your breath hitched in your throat. For a tense moment, nothing in the world moved-

-then, just as it seemed that you had gotten away with the falter, Michael’s motionless figure came to life. He drew a slow inhale. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. He tilted his chin, and his eyes blinked slowly open. He stared blankly at the ceiling. Then, he noticed you. Your teeth clamped down on your tongue to stifle a rising gasp. One of the irises glaring back at you was a deep blue; the other was a pale, deadened white.

You watched as Michael’s good pupil contracted and focused in the sudden light. He did not blink as he stared up at you, and neither emotion nor recognition danced across his features. His face remained a perfectly blank slate, as if waking up to see you staring down at him had been utterly unremarkable. It was almost fitting, you thought, that his expression so perfectly mirrored the emptiness of his mask.

Your mouth fell agape as you scrambled for your words.

“Oh, um- sorry, I just- well, your shoulder.” You tried, and miserably failed, to explain yourself Michael, who’s empty glare was proving to be just as uncomfortable without his mask as it had been with it. You averted your eyes and let your gaze fall to the tussled sheets.

“I was just going to check to see if the bleeding had stopped.”

If not for the rise and fall of his chest with every breath, Michael could have passed for a statue in his eerie stillness. His eyes flit slowly across your face, as if he were searching for something hidden in your nervous features. Your posture slouched. You desperately wished that he would look away.

You rubbed your shoulder sheepishly, and were about to offer up a second apology, when Michael finally relented. He shut his eyes in a series of sluggish blinks, as if the grip of exhaustion still clung to him, and he were trying to shake free of it. You watched apprehensively as he sat slowly upright against the mattress and craned his neck to gaze out the window. He stared between the blinds, at the rising sun, as if the sight of it climbing higher into the hazy morning sky were somehow perturbing. Evidently, Michael was not one to sleep-in.

He tore his gaze away from the window and bent to reach for some unseen thing from beneath the bed. As he sat up again, you caught a flash of white between his fingers; his mask. So that’s where it had gone to. Michael’s back went rigid as he stared stiffly down at the lifeless, hollow rubber clutched in his hands. He began to turn the mask slowly over in his lap and seemed to study its well-worn surface. You were grateful for the sudden distraction; you took a much-needed moment to regain your fractured composure. Even in the wake of the wordless agreement that you had come to last night, that icy glare of Michael’s still made your stomach churn.

With Michael’s back turned, you seized the opportunity to steal a glance at his wound. Even from this odd angle you could see the jagged gash peeking out from beneath the dirty, reddened fabric of his coveralls. Truthfully, the injury looked no better than it had last night- its angry red was now harsher under the glare of the morning sun- but, at the very least, the bleeding seemed to have stopped. It had caked on Michael’s clothing and muddied the blue of his sleeve to a rusty brown. You bit your lip as you considered the injury. It would need care beyond the meager attention you had given it, but you weren’t sure that Michael would tolerate your help; or, for that matter, if you even wanted to give it to him. Your goal had been accomplished, right? You hadn’t woken up covered in blood, and Michael’s mess had been contained. To push your luck with the man at this point would be rash.

A stiff minute passed, and the silence had grown thick enough to slice with a knife. You tucked your knees into your chest and wished for something to distract you from the growing awkwardness. Michael hadn’t ever lingered like this before. Until now, you had been left to your own devices from sunrise till sundown, and while the solitude was boring, you much preferred it to the tension that Michael’s very presence created in the room.

If Michael sensed your growing unease (which you doubted,) he was unaffected by it. He seemed to be ignoring you entirely, now, and had deemed his mask to be far worthier of his consideration. For just a moment, you could have sworn that you saw the ghost of a frown tugging at his lips as he ran his finger slowly over a blemish on the mask, where the white plastic had begun to flake away.

Your eyes fell away from Michael and flitted nervously across the bedroom. There wasn’t any comfort in that sight, either; those four walls had been your entire world for the past week, and while the bedroom was more spacious than your own, the sameness had long ago grown suffocating. You desperately craved a change in scenery. Besides, even if you _wanted_ to help Michael, (which, frankly, you weren’t sure was worth the risk,) you knew that you wouldn’t find the supplies to get the job done in this bedroom. Now, if you could see the rest of the house…

You perked suddenly at the thought. An idea took root in your mind and quickly blossomed into a hopeful plan. Perhaps, if you played your cards right, you could use Michael’s uncharacteristic hesitancy to your advantage. Not to make another escape-attempt, of course- you weren’t about to betray Michael’s trust just as soon as you had earned it- but, maybe this was your chance to stretch your legs.

With some reservation, you straightened your posture, and shot a not-so-subtle cough in Michael’s direction. Michael didn’t take the que. His broad back was still towards you, straight as a washboard, his attention still thoroughly captured by his mask. You marveled briefly at the fact that he had not yet slipped it on- the mask had seemed so incredibly important to him in days past- was he truly so exhausted that whatever impulse had driven him to wear it now lay dormant? You changed tactics. 

“Michael?” You called out sheepishly to the rigid figure. Michael’s body tensed; the reaction was brief, but it was noticeable. Despite his absent, glassy gaze, you could tell that he was listening.

“Sorry, but- do you have anything else to wear?” You asked. No reaction. Of course, you already suspected that the answer to your question was no. That was fine. The question had been rhetorical anyway, and had only served to draw attention to his injury. You pressed on. “It’s just that, well, it probably isn’t a good idea to keep wearing what you have on… it’s sort of, uh, bloody.”

 _That_ earned you a reaction. Michael tore his gaze away from his lap and lifted his head to study his shoulder. You watched curiously as the sharp, crystal-blue of his good eye fell on the bloody mess; and, if his absent expression told you anything, it was that the wound did not bother him in the slightest.

“Or, maybe it just needs a wash.” You suggested. “And a stitch. I could help you- if you don’t know how, I mean.” Still, Michael’s gaze did not rise to meet your own, so you pressed onwards, carefully. “I’m sure that I can find the thread for somewhere in the house.”

At that, Michael’s stare fell away from his wound. He locked eyes with you from over his shoulder. Your breath nearly hitched in your throat as his empty gaze focused dangerously. You fiddled with your fingers nervously in your lap; had he already guessed at your intentions? Were you asking for too much?

The stare-down continued, and you could practically see the gears turning in Michael’s mind as he assessed you. You swallowed hard; but, before you could revoke your proposition, Michael stood suddenly. The mattress dipped and relaxed as his weight left the bed. He slipped the white rubber of his mask over his face with a practiced ease, and his hands fell away to his sides. Then he stared, statue-still, at the bedroom door. His rhythmic breathing flooded the room, unchallenged by any other sound, and suddenly you felt incredibly small. A shudder jolted down your spine at the sight of the transformation- where only a moment ago had stood a silent, stony-faced young man now lurked the very predator who had whisked you away to this dark place. Michael spared you no glance as he crossed the room and pulled the bedroom door softly open. Your eyes lingered after him as he slipped like a panther into the shadows of the hallway.

Then, just like that, you were alone, in the silence.

You sat perfectly still for a minute, just listening. You heard only more of nothing. Thankfully, the silence was not nearly as unsettling as it had been in the days gone by; you were accustomed to it, now.

But there was, of course, one glaring difference between now and the other times that Michael had left you to your own devices: the bedroom door. This time, Michael had not bothered to shut the door behind him on his way out. You sat upright, your interest piqued, and considered the softly creaking door, which swayed lazily in the draft which swept through the hallway. Your lips tugged into a deep frown.

You didn’t get it; had this been an oversight of Michael’s? You severely doubted it. He had been so careful and deliberate in his actions, and far-too calculating to allow a misstep like this to occur. If not an accident, then, what were you to make of this? Was this an invitation? Or was it a test?

Your teeth found your bottom lip, which you began to chew nervously; if you took this as an invitation to explore the house, and you were wrong, the consequences could be catastrophic. You were trying to earn Michael’s trust, after all, not shatter it beyond repair.

To combat your impatience, you stretched your legs out over the sheets. The sudden movement stoked a burn in your calves. Your face contorted, and you hissed through clenched teeth. The ache was nothing new; disuse had long ago turned your muscles stiff and sore. You desperately missed the privilege of being able to walk. Your eyes fell to tenderness of your injured ankle, and you ran your thumb gently across the red swelling, which truly now was no longer red, but a bright pink. It had been a gradual process, but, finally, the sharp pain in your foot had faded, leaving you with only a dull throb.

You considered the open door once more with wary eyes. Whatever Michael’s intentions were, he had clearly given you a choice. Would you ever get an opportunity like this again? Surely, a quick peek into the hallway wouldn’t raise Michael’s suspicions? You slid to the edge of the bed and let your legs dangle precariously over the side of the mattress. Then, with a deep breath, you stood. You swayed as your feet met the floorboards, and your knees wobbled, but your ankle held strong. You limped to the door and placed a tentative hand on its splintering wood. A cool draft swept through the dimly-lit hallway and danced in a tickle across your skin. You craned your neck and peered, for the first time in a week, at the world beyond your cramped room. Your roving eyes caught no hint of a ghostly-white mask lurking in the shadows. Michael was nowhere to be seen. 

The hairs of your arm pricked immediately to a stand. Of course, Michael was still somewhere in the house- you had not heard the tell-tale creak of the front door, nor his bootsteps retreating across the porch- which meant that he was indeed watching you. You just couldn’t see him.

You swallowed hard. Your throat burned with a sudden dryness; this felt all-too familiar. Even if Michael only intended to observe you, what if stalking you unseen, through the shadows of an unlit house, triggered something primal within him? What if some dormant feeling resurfaced, some _urge,_ or whatever it was that drove him to- you didn’t want to say it- to do what he did?

Then, a second thought, just as terrifying, occurred to you: What if you were wrong?

What if you allowed this growing terror to consume you, and let this opportunity slip past, leaving you with nothing to do but sit on the bed and twiddle your thumbs for another week? Or would it be a month this time? Besides, Michael had- well, _promised_ wasn’t the word- but he had made it clear that he wasn’t going to hurt you, so long as you gave him no reason to. If you took it slow, kept your movements calm and collected, and _stayed away from the windows,_ what defiance would Michael find in your actions?

It was decided, then. You took a steadying breath. Your fingers loosened from the creaking door- you could feel your heart beating in your throat- and, before your fear could swallow you up entirely, you squinched your eyes shut, and took a step forward. You waited- you held your breath in your lungs and your heart fluttered rapidly away against your ribs- but nothing happened. 

Michael did not surge suddenly forwards like a hungry monster from the shadows to seize you in his rough hands, nor did you burst into flames upon stepping from the doorway, nor did any other disastrous situation come to fruition. You peeked your eyes open-

-and saw only the same dim, dusty hallway rising before you. The tension ebbed from your chest like a retreating tide. You heaved a shaky exhale. You had done it- the bedroom was behind you- the house (or, the upper floor, at least) was yours to explore.

You had only vague and fractured memories of the hall that you now stood in. On that first night, in the midst of your frantic escape attempt, everything had been a blur. Truthfully, the only details you could recall from the event were the deafening pounding of your heart in your ears, the cold sweat on your brow, the ever-closer thud of Michael’s approaching footsteps, and the white-hot pain of your twisted ankle. You tried your hardest not to think about any of those things as you took another step across the creaking floor.

The house was old. That much you had been able to deduce already- in the bedroom, the paint had begun to flake away from the walls, exposing the splintering wooden panels underneath. Then, there was the matter of the settling support beams, which had kept you up late into the night with their swaying and moaning. The dust was new. Every step that you took kicked up a new wave of the stuff. The specks dazzled like tiny stars as they filtered slowly down through the cone of light radiating from the bedroom behind you. You rubbed at your nose and gave a sniff; yep, the house was definitely old, but it didn’t look so worse for wear that it should have been abandoned. That nagging fact lit a spark of unease in your chest.

The hallway was straight and narrow, and you could see all the way to the end of it, to where the railing of a stairwell rose up. You would avoid those stairs like the plague; You had no doubt that even a glance in their direction would be a one-way ticket to getting swept into Michael’s crushing grasp and being plopped right back onto the sagging mattress of the cramped bedroom.

That left you with two options- adjacent doors, each of which sat on opposite sides of the hallway. Neither seemed particularly inviting- but, the room to your right, you had a bad history with. Something about a window? So, left it was.

You turned the tarnished knob slowly and let the door creak softly open. The room inside was large. Large and dark. The sunlight barely managed to squeeze through the shuttered windows and cast its rays in thin lines across the dark wood flooring. Pushed up against the far wall sat a mahogany desk, and next to it, a cushioned chair. Like in the hallway, a fine layer of dust blanketed everything here, too, save for a rectangular patch on the floor, which was miraculously dust-free. You suspected that the cabinet Michael had used to barricade the bedroom door had once stood in that pristine spot.

You realized, as you continued your scan of the room, that nothing in the office seemed to have been broken or disrespected, as would have surely happened had the house been abandoned. No graffiti lined the walls, and (nearly) all of the furniture stood proud and in its proper place. The room looked frozen in time.

A silent eeriness settled as you approached the desk. Unease pooled in your gut like thickening cement- you tip-toed across the floor with the caution of one treading through a graveyard.

Your fingers found the round knob of one of the drawers and it came open with a rusty squeak. The contents of the desk were unremarkable; you stood sifting through files of paper and stray pens, until you found among the clutter a pair of scissors, which you set aside on the desk- you would need those to cut a bandage for Michael. The second drawer yielded better results. You added a needle and a spool of black thread to your growing collection of supplies and sat them down on top of the desk, too.

Something on top of the desk caught your eye. A silver picture frame. It was face-down against the wood, as if it had fallen over. You reached for it gingerly, plucked it up and wiped at the dusty glass with your sleeve, until the photograph was revealed. Posing for the picture was a grinning couple- they looked to be middle-aged, not quite greying, but wrinkles lined their bright eyes and wide smiles. They stood on a white porch, leaning over a wooden railing. Your heart sunk like led into your stomach. Your fingers turned white around the tin frame. You recognized the porch in the picture; you had been hauled across it, kicking and screaming, after you had taken your desperate spill out the window.

So, the house hadn’t been abandoned after all- it had been forcefully taken. You laid the picture-frame back down on the desk with quivering fingers. The photograph felt suddenly disrespectful to hold, as if in doing so, you were disturbing the couple’s memory. It wasn’t difficult to piece together what had happened to them. The unease in your stomach bubbled into nausea. You felt ill.

Of course, it wasn’t that you been unaware of Michael’s crimes- you had seen the evidence of them on his blood-stained blade- but, you had been able to ignore them; after all, you had not seen those victims. This was different. It was all-too easy to imagine, in gory detail, how the couple had died.

A shiver crept down your spine at the grim thought. You rubbed at the goosebumps which pricked up on arms and glanced behind you apprehensively- you half-expected to catch the white of Michael’s mask lurking in some shadowy corner of the room- but, to your relief, you seemed to be the only occupant.

The draft from the hallway swept suddenly into the office. It rustled through the faded drapes and turned the air clammy, and when you drew a breath, you could smell the musty tinge of mold, which you had not noticed before. You did not linger for very long in the office after that- only long enough to cut a long rectangle from the fabric of the drapes. You muttered an apology under your breath as you worked the scissors through the curtain- to who, exactly, you weren’t sure. It just felt like the proper thing to do.

You returned to the bedroom after that and sat cross-legged on the mattress to wait for Michael, your supplies clutched tightly in your arms. You weren’t kept waiting for very long; within the minute, Michael’s bootsteps were creaking back down the hallway. You wondered where in the house he had disappeared to- although, part of you was perfectly fine with being kept in the dark about that one. The mental image of Michael stalking you around shadowy corners, just out of view, was not a comforting one.

Michael proved to be just as compliant as he had been the night prior as you set to work tending to his sleeve. He sat down across from you on the bed and resumed his absent, dutiful stare at nothing in particular. You threaded the string through the eye of the needle and inched closer across the bed to him with as much composure as you could muster. He did not pull away from your touch when your fingers alighted on his shoulder, and so you stitched the blue fabric of his sleeve without a word, pulling the thread back and forth in a tidy pattern until the tear was no more. 

**End of Part One, Part Two to come!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more for my people in the back: This isn't the full chapter, and there's a part two, thus the super abrupt ending. I just didn't want to have an 8,000 word chapter.


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